


An Arrangement of Colours and Lines

by Drusilla_951



Series: The D. I.'s Daughter [4]
Category: Endeavour (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Classical Music, Episode Related, Episode: s07e01 Oracle, F/M, Gen, Ludo Talenti's Nefarious Purposes, Married Couple, Tongue-in-cheek AU, Very Happily Married, Will Ludo Talenti prevail?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-02
Updated: 2021-03-02
Packaged: 2021-03-14 23:49:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,649
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29799747
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Drusilla_951/pseuds/Drusilla_951
Summary: 1970. What would happen if Morse were married when Ludo first met him? A tongue-in-cheek what-if set duringOracle.You don’t have to read the previous instalments to enjoy this story.
Relationships: Dorothea Frazil & Endeavour Morse, Dorothea Frazil & Joan Thursday, Endeavour Morse & Ludo Talenti, Endeavour Morse/Joan Thursday
Series: The D. I.'s Daughter [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1590691
Comments: 26
Kudos: 26





	An Arrangement of Colours and Lines

**Author's Note:**

  * For [EAU1636](https://archiveofourown.org/users/EAU1636/gifts), [human_dreamer_etcetera](https://archiveofourown.org/users/human_dreamer_etcetera/gifts), [partsguy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/partsguy/gifts).



> For [EAU1636](https://archiveofourown.org/users/EAU1636/pseuds/EAU1636) and [human_dreamer_etcetera](https://archiveofourown.org/users/human_dreamer_etcetera/pseuds/human_dreamer_etcetera) who are so supportive of my various endeavours and such awesome Morse/Joan fics writers. This story is also a gift to [partsguy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/partsguy/pseuds/partsguy): I promised you I would write it, and I'm sorry it didn't turn into another epic fic.  
>   
> All my gratitude goes to my awesome Beta [AstridContraMundum](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AstridContraMundum/pseuds/AstridContraMundum) who also writes a great ‘hydroplane’ of a ‘ship’. Without her, you wouldn’t be reading this fic!  
>   
> All the standard **disclaimers** apply: _Endeavour_ doesn’t belong to me, and I’m just borrowing it for a while. Some dialogues are Russell Lewis’.  
>   
> This fic takes place in the same AU series, but you don’t have to read all the previous instalments to understand this one. Suffice it to know that Morse and Joan Thursday got married in the previous story.  
>   
> The story hasn't been Brit-picked. Every remaining error is mine.

_We are to remember, in the first place, that the arrangement of colours and lines is an art analogous_  
_to the composition of music, and entirely independent of the representation of facts_.  
John Ruskin, _The Stones of Venice_ (1853)

  
  
Outside of the Ruskin Library, propped up on an easel, a hand-written sheet of paper proudly proclaims the programme of the conference; however, Joan Morse merely gives it a passing glance as she goes through the door. Neither does she lose much time perusing the red and white poster proclaiming ‘ _EQUAL RIGHTS EQUALS LIBERATION_.’ Still, the busts whose eyes are blindfolded with black velvet draw a more insistent look, an ironic smile, and a raised eyebrow. A few steps forwards, and Joan’s curious gaze plunges through the doors leading to an elongated room tapestried with bookshelves and books. On the farthest wall, a banner proclaims proudly, ‘ _WOMEN’S EQUAL RIGHTS CAMPAIGN_.’  
  
All this is well and good.  
  
More than good.  
  
Truly hopeful.  
  
_But where the dickens is Morse?_  
  
As Joan hesitates on the threshold, a young woman briskly places a leaflet in her hands. Surprised, Joan looks at it, and almost gives it back to her. ‘Thank you, but…’  
  
‘Hello,’ the young woman interrupts with a wide smile. ‘You’re in good time, no need to hurry.’  
  
‘I’m not…’ Joan makes a show of browsing through the leaflet, before handing it regretfully back to her. ‘I can’t stay, sorry. I wish I could. Truly.’ She gives the blonde a sheepish half-smile. ‘Actually, I’m looking for my husband.’  
  
‘You won’t find him here.’ The young woman gestures, pointing towards the entrance. ‘The creche is just along the hall.’  
  
‘The creche? Ah! No, no…’ Joan smothers a smile at the idea of a flabbergasted Morse saddled with several bawling toddlers, and hastens to reply, ‘Our son is at his grandparents’. And I’m afraid I won’t be joining you today. Perhaps another time...’  
  
‘Then…’  
  
‘Morse told me I’d find him here. He had an appointment with a Dr. Benford.’  
  
‘I’m Dr. Benford.’  
  
Joan’s brows rise up, and she looks at her more squarely. Self-possessed, smiling, the woman is about her age. A picture of collected competence. She’ll probably go far in her field… if men don’t impede her professional progress.  
  
‘Well, then. Did you see…?’  
  
Sudden understanding widens Dr. Benford’s eyes. ‘You’re the policeman’s wife?’  
  
‘A strange question from one striving to overthrow patriarchal domination!’  
  
A slight smile blossoms for a second on Dr. Benford’s lips. ‘Old habits die hard. Even we women have to strive at it. But, yes, your husband’s still around.’  
  
She looks pointedly towards a corner of the library a little behind Joan’s back. Following her hint, Joan’s head turns in that direction. To the far right, in a more secluded corner, ensconced between a bust whose face is covered by a tartan scarf and a stepladder leaning on bookshelves, Morse is speaking in low tones with Dorothea Frazil.  
  
Joan nods her thanks to Dr. Benford and steps nearer to them.  
  
When she gets closer, it’s to hear Dorothea’s dry, pale voice uttering, ‘Cats going missing, and then turning up—all...’ Her hand makes a little desolate, jerking gesture, accentuating the disgust invading her suddenly pinched face. It’s expressive enough, but still she elaborates with, ‘Oh, it's too horrible. One for the RSPCA, no doubt.’  
  
Morse’s back—which is the only part of him that his wife sees from her present point of view—goes rigid for a second, before he shrugs it all away.  
  
‘—So as you can see, my dance card is positively chocker.’  
  
At Dorothea’s deliberate levity, Morse lets go of a little huff of a laugh. Jerking his head abruptly away, his gaze flickers on the posters plastered near him. The sight doesn’t please him any. His brow furrows as his eyes fall on the red and white banner hung at the farthest end of the library. The sight repels him even more, as his next move demonstrates. Slowly, he backs away in the direction of the entrance, his progress disclosing the attentive Mrs. Morse’s presence to the _Oxford Mail_ editor, igniting a mischievous spark in her eyes.  
  
‘What is it that you’re all hoping to be liberated from, exactly?’ asks Morse, still blissfully unaware of his wife’s presence. His tone holds the right balance between honest puzzlement and teasing. ‘Is it just the dishes, or light housekeeping in general?’  
  
Joan takes a deep breath. Endeavour’s levity is uncalled for. For all his flaws and his sometimes-patronising tendencies, Morse never shies away from his share of the housekeeping. Even though it’s always a huge task to have him clear up his den from time to time. He never finds anything anymore, he usually grumbles, when Joan tidies it. So, she’s leaving it to him, with hazardous results.  
  
‘Patriarchal hegemony, in the main,’ Dorothea replies in as light a tone, nonetheless veiling genuine conviction.  
  
‘Ah!’ From Morse’s accentuated drawl, his enquiry was done half in jest.  
  
‘Freedom from the tyranny of the squeezy bottle’s just an adjunct,’ Joan butts in, getting close enough to stand at Endeavour’s side. She smiles up at her husband as he briefly places his right hand on the small of her back, in that unconscious possessive manner that still thrills her. ‘Hello, Dee.’  
  
‘Joan.’ Miss Frazil’s smile brightens her face. ‘I’m not surprised to see you here. Speaking of housekeeping, how are you settling back in?’  
  
‘Slowly. Our fortnight vacation in Venice didn’t help matters, there’s still so much to do in the house. But it was lovely to have Constant back with us. He thrived being at my parents’ though.’  
  
‘I'm still waiting to hear about Venice,’ Dorothea says mischievously. ‘Second honeymoon, was it?’  
  
The Morses exchange a glance and Joan colours a little, to Morse’s obvious amusement. She blushes deeper when he answers, ‘The streets are filled with water.’  
  
Joan lets go of a snort and slaps his arm playfully. ‘You—’  
  
Miss Frazil grins back. ‘Stop press!’ Her eyes focus on Morse’s tuxedo and Joan’s dark green cocktail dress, so out of place in their present surroundings. ‘What about now? You've clearly got plans.’  
  
Endeavour smirks. ‘Oh, I shall be oppressing Joan, I expect. Keeping the chauvinistic end up—’  
  
‘Ha!’ objects Joan, in a no-nonsense tone. ‘Don’t you wish!’  
  
Miss Frazil observes the marital exchange with a smile. ‘The inexhaustible joys of marriage, I presume?’  
  
‘That failing, I take my comforts where I can. “ _Music haths charms_ ”,’ Morse goes on, not infirming or confirming her remark.  
  
‘Beethoven and Schubert Quartets at the Queen’s College,’ Joan explains with a huge smile. ‘For a selected few. Should be pleasant. Mum and Dad volunteered to look after Constant till tomorrow, so that’ll be just the two of us.’  
  
According to the rising at the corners of Morse’s mouth, the pleasure seems to be shared by husband and wife alike.  
  
Playfully, Morse extends his hand and swiftly pats Dorothea’s arm. ‘Have a nice weekend.’  
  
That he intends to have one underlines his parting words. With Joan’s flash of a smile, the Morses exit Ruskin Library, followed by the warmth of Miss Frazil’s benevolent glance.  


  


* * *

  


The Warden’s Garden is a delight. Brimming with flowers, it is wide enough for the impeccable lawn to sport a marquee at one end—under which the musicians are protected from the sun’s unforgiveable rays—and several rows of chairs for the audience, and refreshments at the other. Bushes of all sorts, tiny white flowers with a penetrating fragrance and thick foliage varying from almost silvery white to deep green form a natural, alluring backdrop; Joan isn’t a botanist at heart, and apart from roses and tulips, she’d be hard pressed to give any flower a name, even for a quiz game, but it doesn’t prevent her from admiring the delicate shades. They contrast nicely with the sun kissed, honey-tinted, centuries-old walls and the elegant plain tiles of the gently sloping neighbouring roofs.

The concert is a private event set in this secluded venue, organised for special patrons of the College, but Morse is friends with the cellist, so the Morses benefitted from his free tickets.

They met when Morse helped him to recover his stolen Goffiller, and since then, their friendship progressed nicely onward. ‘ _A cellist without his particular cello is like a man without a shadow, or one who lost his soul_ ,’ enlightened Morse at the time, and Joan has seen enough evidence of Matthew De Camp’s gentle and self-deprecating one to know that silencing that soul would indeed double the crime. The _Rinaldo Quartet_ is one of the up-and-coming British instrumental quartets, and being invited to that treat is a _recherché_ pleasure that many amateurs would stop at nothing to obtain.

Indeed, the De Camp brothers, along with Matthew’s partner and another associate from their Royal College of Music days, are even more celebrated since their late triumphal tour across Europe, and hearing them in this up-close, privileged manner isn’t the usual fare of the distinguished audience sitting in the caned chairs. ‘The acoustics aren’t that great,’ Morse grumbles at first under his breath, but soon, he is lost in the gorgeous rendition of Beethoven’s String Quartet No 13.

Glancing swiftly at some earnest faces whose contortions attest that their thoughts aren’t really following the German genius’ strains, and at others who are telegraphing their supposed pleasure for any scrutiny, Joan swallows an ironic smile. Those would wear an even more pinched expression if their possessors knew about the evenings the Morses frequently spent at Matthew’s cottage, discussing the latest goss in the Classical Music world, the newest Callas epigone discovery, the sad present lack of adequate Wagnerian singers, as well as modern opera, Morse not being the last one to assert his opinion in an authoritative way. And many other engrossing conversations, not confined to music.

Next to Joan, her husband is listening intently, his rapt face slightly tilted, his eyes not leaving the smooth dance performed by the bow held in the slightly balding man’s steady fingers. She inhales deeply, then closes her eyes, letting the _andante_ claim her mind and her superfluous thoughts drift away with the light breeze. 

But if the first part of the concert is a delight, the following intermission is quite anticlimactic.

Instead of being able to savour a silence still filled with the last notes of Beethoven’s Quartet, Joan’s ears get crammed with some inane discussion, a woman’s shrill voice not letting her ignore anything about the latest indiscretions of someone whose name she doesn’t quite catch and couldn’t care less about.

Morse can’t refrain from shrugging irritably, and, his cheek twitching with annoyance, he makes the offer of a glass of bubbles to his wife, who is delighted to accept it.

The Champagne bar is set a little aside, near the Summer House. Standing close to a wild rose bush as Morse goes to fetch their glasses, Joan looks with interest at the guests conglomerating in little groups, chatting happily about the performance, or meandering on the lush lawn. They obviously all know each other, and Joan can’t help but feel a little left out of the intense socializing.

Of Morse, she sees only his back as he bends a little over the marble-covered top of the table proffering glasses and several champagne bottles, talking to the waiter. From afar, she can’t help tracing with her mind the curve of his nape and the severely cropped hair which still manages to curl a little around the ends. He’s matured in the last few months, losing a little of that juvenile appearance that so tugged at her heart when she first met him, but this new distinguished maturity sits very well with him. And Morse in a tux is always a striking sight, her mind supplies happily, wandering swiftly into marital prospects that she knows the evening will make true. Then Joan’s thoughts change course as a woman with a gorgeous lemon green dress ambles past her, obstructing her sight of Morse; she follows the woman with her gaze, eyeing with a touch of envy the chic frock topped by a transparent black wrap. Joan knows she carries off her much cheaper number with aplomb, but still…

‘Excuse me,’ Morse says in too loud a voice, and Joan’s attention switches back to him.

She whirls on her heels in time to see a blond man unhurriedly pocketing something inside his jacket, a smirk cheekily directed at Morse. The chap backs down, some step away from her incensed husband; a step further, then another one, and suddenly he springs away, beginning to run between the guests, even brushing against an older man who is absentmindedly browsing through his concert programme, at the risk of making him fall.

‘Stop!’ yells Morse once; then he states it with even more strength as the man breaks into full run, the purple lining of his jacket flapping in the wind in his flight.

Morse follows him instantly, charging across the lawn, yelling at Joan as he overtakes her, ‘Don’t move!’

Several guests freeze on the spot, taking the advice for their sakes, their flabbergasted stares more telling than any outcry. After a second or two of silence, the conversations resume in a lower tone, but the buzz is now punctuated with sneak peeps at the far-away door leading to New College lane, through some twists and turns and a covered passage. Both men just disappeared through it, leaving disapproving surprise in their wake.

In something of a hurry, Joan picks up her dress and follows in Morse’s footsteps. When she’s safely away from the whispers, she breaks into a brisk trot, holding her dress up in the vicinity of her knees, trying not to stumble in her moderately high heels.

Great minds think alike. A black-haired man wearing a tux overtakes her without trouble, torso bent forward in the urgency of his rush.

However, when Joan’s head peeks into the street, it’s to see Morse sprawled out on the cobblestones, a look of painful stupefaction etched on his face. 

He’s lying face down, smack in the bend of Queen’s Lane, almost shielded from the unremitting sun by the blackened arch. Standing a little away, almost in front of the Warden’s Garden Gothic door, the sprinter who had gone ahead of Joan is watching Morse’s discomfiture with a fleeting smile—a _pleased_ smile?

Morse pushes himself up from the road, looking towards the end of the Lane where, presumably, the man he was running after disappeared. He slowly gets up, looking down with disgust at his hands and trousers, then he rubs his hands together in a futile attempt to get rid of the grime.

Only then does the bearded man move and get closer to Morse. ‘Are you all right?’ he asks with a light tone which doesn’t reveal much concern for the answer, to Joan’s critical ears. Then he frowns faintly, his eyes filling with careful surprise. ‘It’s, err...’

His chest still heaving, Morse turns in the man’s direction with blatant puzzlement, before mechanically giving his name. His eyes alight on Joan as she steps over the threshold, comes nearer, and pulls a clean hanky out of her clutch bag. He seizes it, darting a grateful glance at her.

‘Morse! Of course!’ the man replies with a smile. ‘Forgive me. English names.’

He sounds faintly apologetic, but, all the same, it doesn’t impress Morse. ‘I'm sorry, have we met?’

‘Ludo. We were up at the same time.’ 

From Endeavour’s faintly perplexed face, it rings no bells.

‘I was at Beaufort, and you were at... err…’ The man’s voice trails with an interrogative inflection. Still busy dusting himself off with Joan’s hanky, Morse remains silent, and the other man has no other choice than to add glibly, with a flash of playfulness, ‘No, wait, don’t tell me!’

‘He was at Wolsey,’ Joan supplies, with a wide, open smile. 

She doesn’t know why she lied; it just burst out. Morse flashes a quick, puzzled glance at her, but keeps mum.

Her bald lie doesn’t faze the stranger with the oily voice any. ‘Wolsey, yes!’ His smile widens, almost showing vampire fangs; a spread of white ivory, almost sparkling in the sun.

And with his acquiescence, the scene goes from ‘curious’ to ‘curiouser’ in the span of a few heartbeats. Joan knows that Morse’s mind is speeding up in a smooth acceleration, but no one could guess it from his outwardly mild manner when he straightens up, with a last brush over his pants and the lapels of his still dust-covered tuxedo jacket.

‘Please, allow me to stand you a drink?’

The voice is graceful enough, but in the ‘you’ he uses, Joan senses that he mainly means ‘ _Morse_ ,’ before wondering if the woman in the green frock should probably be included in the invitation.

The man—Ludo—has no choice but to include her when she slips her hand under her husband’s arm, but his swift glare makes it obvious what he privately thinks about clingy, possessive women, displaying hastily covered scorn and not a little irritation. Then his eyes rest on her hand. For the first time, he seems to notice her wedding band and engagement ring, and his mouth contracts for the briefest time.

Joan’s budding unease goes up one notch, and she casts another swift sidelong look at Morse. If he has also noticed Ludo’s reticence, he doesn’t display it, politely declining, ‘Oh no. I'm fine, thank you.’

But Ludo doesn’t consider himself beaten. ‘No, look, I insist,’ he says. ‘I have some small connection to this afternoon's entertainment, which, in a manner of speaking, makes you my guests.’

‘Not really,’ Morse counters with as well-mannered a tone. ‘We are here courtesy of Mr. De Camp.’

‘He’s a wonderful violinist, isn’t he?’ Ludo says without missing a beat. ‘So is his cellist brother.’

‘Indeed. His Bach Suites were truly captivating.’

‘A tribute to Pablo Casals’ teaching, isn’t it?’

Morse opines, but Joan sees his heart isn’t really in the conversation. He seems distracted, his head twisting, as if magnetized, towards the direction of Queen’s Lane farthest end.

‘—unless you prefer Pierre Fournier’s artistry?’ insists Ludo, with a show of interest with finally provokes the turn of Morse’s head towards his enthusiastically smiling face. ‘Or are Bach’s violin concertos more to your taste?’

‘Not quite,’ refutes Morse, just as quietly. He casts a last regretful look at the far bend of Queen’s Lane, as if his quarry’s shadow were imprinted upon the wall cuddled by a merciless sun, then he leads the way through the arch opening into the Warden’s Garden.

Thus Johann Sebastian Bach’s violin and keyboard concertos accompanies them back to the garden, where the second part of the concert is about to begin.

  


* * *

  


The Schubert Quartet leaves no happy memory for Joan.

She can’t concentrate on the music. She’s too busily engaged in sneaking glances at her husband, trying to dodge the barrier of Ludo’s tuxedoed silhouette. The man had the gall to escort them back to the garden, then to sit squarely between them at the last minute, making desolate faces as the beginning of the quartet renders any ulterior seat swapping painfully inadequate.

Therefore, Joan sits fuming in her designated chair, her enjoyment dissipating in the same tempo as the rays of the sun beneath a thin cover of clouds. Bursts of sunlight and erratic shadows creep upon her knees, making the green material of her dress shimmer under their hide and seek game. Glimpsing how they make Morse’s hair flash with mahogany glints under their caressing fingers holds no pleasure for her, as his profile is concealed by Ludo’s fidgeting in time with the music. The man’s conspicuous, as if it weren’t enough that he grabbed a seat between them, spoiling their blessed solitude-in-a-crowd along with her delight in the music.

Joan knows she’s being egotistical, but spending a fortnight in Venice with Morse has merely reminded her of how it used to be before Constant brought his chubby sweetness, his toothless smiles, his babyish dimples, and his needs between them. She adores her son, she truly does, but sometimes she wishes it were just the two of them again. Fortunately, Constant has two dotting grandparents, only too eager to stay with him from time to time, and generous enough to facilitate the young couple’s sojourn in Venice. The last gift from Morse’s Aunt Matilda, who, with her passing, left them a tidy little sum of money along with a few family mementoes.

So off to Venice they went, to revel in an orgy of opera—twice at La Fenice for a glorious _Ballo in Maschera_ and a lesser known piece, _La Sposa del Demonio_ —, and museums, gorgeous churches and palaces, creamy tiramisus, jaunts in gondolas, and leisurely walks across the twists and turns of the timeless streets across the canals. ‘Venice in the Spring’ may be a trite cliché, but there are reasons why it sticks so vividly to the travellers’ reminiscences.

And not even their spacious room overlooking the Grand Canal done in sickening pink or the woman who made her interest in Endeavour a little too apparent at the Fenice, throwing luring glances above her half-naked shoulder—‘ _a not very discreet Traviata_ ,’ Morse sneered—could spoil it, even a bit. And if Joan sneaked up from time to time to call discreetly her parents in order to get detailed news of her offspring, and if she was sometimes tempted to question her feelings of motherhood, feeling some belated qualms at deserting their son with not enough remorse, this soul-searching wasn’t enough to make her doubt the balance of her love for the two chaps in her life.

Still, getting Morse truly for herself is a rare enough commodity that she isn’t ready to ditch for this Ludo whose attitude is more and more obnoxious.

When applause salutes the last Schubertian chord, under cover of the noise, Ludo asks Morse as if the players were his own private toys, along with the original music, ‘You enjoyed the concert?’

‘Very much.’

‘Music is my life. My grand passion.’ Ludo’s voice lowers a bit while he goes on, ‘Second only to the dogged pursuit of beautiful women.’

His ill-concealed leer and insistent display of male conspiracy are perfectly insufferable, and Joan’s lips tighten despite her will. And hearing Morse’s bark of a laugh answering that not-so-witty statement— _the swine!_ —prompts her hands to grip her clutch bag tighter than it would be necessary.

All of a sudden, Ludo frowns indecisively. ‘You would say this, “dogged pursuit,” in English?’

‘Yes, we would.’

‘Well, there we are! Such are the articles of my faith.’ Ludo heaves a theatrical sigh. ‘The only ones I acknowledge, in any event.’

‘There are much worse,’ opines Morse, who nonetheless manages to recover his footing in his wife’s good opinion by glancing sideways at her with open admiration.

Despite herself, Joan’s lips stretch in a little smile. _Morse didn’t pursue her, far from it_. He made every endeavour not to, standing stiff as a poker between the hat stand and the entrance mirror and doggedly deflecting all her attempts at flirting. However, ‘dogged’ doesn’t even begin to describe all he did for her, and still does, so Ludo’s eager ‘Ah, none better,’ trying to re-establish male bonding doesn’t bother her at all.

The pesky interloper suddenly jumps up from his seat. ‘And now I am hungry. Shall we have supper?’

Morse’s face shapes itself into a mask of polite refusal, his lips part, but Ludo hastens to forestall his utterance by declaring, ‘I shall brook no refusal. There's a little place I know. You’ll both love it,’ and the moment is entirely lost as graciousness prevails.

They chat a few moments with the De Camp brothers, and exit the garden, its gorgeous enclosure feeling increasingly like the Garden of Eden when Innocence was lost and troubles began.

  


* * *

  


If the previous events were truly bizarre, the early evening is ever weirder. 

Not to say that the ‘little place’ of Ludo’s choosing is a bad choice. On the contrary; it’s everything a posh, exclusive place should be. From the nod acknowledging Ludo’s arrival at the door, to their not having to wait despite not having advance booking—or didn’t they?—, it’s abundantly clear that the place is _élite_ and Ludo one of their regulars.

Subdued lighting, gorgeous artwork displayed on the walls, adequate distance to keep the conversations private, deferent maitre d’hotel and exquisite dishes and wines would make this a delight but for the presence of their host who probes Morse relentlessly. It feels more like an interrogation than a catching-up conversation.

Joan sips her wine sparingly, listens with her ears wide open, venturing a rare word despite Morse’s efforts to draw her into the conversation. Both men joke about their former tutors and other undergraduates, Morse supplying most of the anecdotes and Ludo’s laugh most of his repartees. 

‘Another bottle?’ offers Ludo.

‘Oh, no, thank you,’ Morse declines. He casts an almost benign eye on his surroundings. ‘Well, what a day!’

‘We have a saying in my country, “Do not praise the day before sunset”.’

‘Which country is that?’ Joan asks, glad of an opportunity to learn more about the man. His skilful repartees don’t tell anything about him but are made to draw more out of his main interlocutor—a most disturbing fact. Or is she so miffed by his intrusion that she can’t find him any redeeming qualities?

But her thinly veiled attempt is deflected with ridiculous ease. ‘War has redrawn national borders so many times as to make such notions an irrelevance—’

 _As if she were a stupid female unaware of international events!_

‘—I prefer to say I'm a man of the world.’

‘ _It’s like approaching a silky porcupine_ ,’ Joan thinks irrelevantly. ‘ _The moment one’s finger comes too close, he turns defensive, oh-so-smoothly defensive._ ’

Morse’s lips curl up at the double entendre. ‘And what is it you do in the world?’

Unfortunately, Ludo’s answer is just as vague. ‘Travel mostly. My family's in shipping. Since before Vasco da Gama.’ He laughs again, with blatant false modesty, his teeth flashing white in the half-light.

Try as she may, Joan can’t place his slight accent. And yet, she listens to enough lilts and tonic stresses at Welfare, but she can’t quite recognise this one. With a jolt, she snaps out of her pondering and pays again attention to Ludo’s careful boasting.

‘—of our charitable foundation. I buy and sell beautiful things. Artwork. I have a music festival, and give my patronage to theatrical ventures.’ A slight pause, to let it sink. Then, a damning, airy, ‘And you?’

But Morse has no intention of being daunted by this display of success. Tersely, he provides a ‘Nothing quite so interesting. I’m a policeman,’ thus killing any budding competition between them.

His disclosure is brushed aside with some wry amusement. ‘Truly?’

‘Mm-hm.’

‘But you seem a man of refinement. Of great taste,’ Ludo insists. ‘Not at all a lumpen, plodding, petty official.’

Her husband’s eyebrow arches up and his glass of wine gets back to the table top, while Joan is suddenly seized with the urge to do something that would have the Morses walking out from the restaurant in disgrace when she was done.

Very perceptively, Ludo offers, ‘Ah! I’ve offended you,’ making matters worse with a tiny chuckle, as he probably intended to. ‘I meant, of course, those policemen not in England.’ 

‘ _His shifting from polite insults to friendly digs is exhausting_ ,’ Joan ponders, while taking a last mouthful of her _crème caramel_. ‘ _If that’s the kind of… friends Morse had in College, no wonder he jettisoned them as soon as he could. I much preferred meeting the Belboroughs, boorish as Bruce was!_ ’

Still, the relentless questioning goes on. ‘Have you travelled much in the Continent?’

‘Oh, a little,’ Morse says deprecatingly, then, still trying to draw Joan into speech, he adds, ‘We were in Italy a short while ago.’

But Morse’s last attempt to draw his wife into the conversation is waved away again. ‘So, you will know the border officials and provincial policemen are one of two types. The dull, everything-by-the book sort. And those who understand the only international language worth a damn.’ Ludo’s fingers nimbly delineate the age-old gesture born when banknotes were. ‘Which type are you?’ 

‘The former. Definitely.’ There’s no hesitation whatsoever in Morse’s voice, and suddenly, a wave of pride engulfs Joan. _He won’t stand for such childish innuendo; he won’t_.

Still, Ludo doesn’t consider himself beaten. ‘Incorruptible? Is that it?’

‘That's right.’

A scornful smile flitters on the lips of the man seated opposite them. ‘Every man has his price.’

This time, the puff of laugh exiting Morse’s lips isn’t as carefree. He briefly lowers his eyes, and Joan is left to imagine the many temptations offered to a copper and what it might have cost him to discard them all—if he were ever tempted, that is.

‘Every man,’ Ludo drives on relentlessly, the knuckles of his index finger underlining his words with a dry sound as they pat the pristine tablecloth. His smile doesn’t feel as playful as he probably intended it. ‘I shall make it my life’s business to find yours. And once I have found your weakness, I shall exploit it without mercy to my own ends.’

Both men chuckle at that boast, and Joan tries to follow suit. But there’s a sour taste in her mouth, and it’s not _caramel_ -flavoured.

‘And what is that?’ asks Morse, from open curiosity as much as from playfulness.

‘I shall think of something.’ Again, Ludo laughs. The sound would exude mirth, if there wasn’t something darker lurking behind the sound. Something that assaults Joan’s ears with a dissonant screech.

‘And what about you?’ Morse queries, loath to let go of the game. ‘What's your weakness?’

Unexpectedly, a curtain rises, disclosing something that is gone so swiftly that Joan isn’t sure it was there at all, before Ludo’s eyes fill with something like— _distress_?

‘My weakness?’ There is something desolate in his voice, now. ‘My weakness left me.’

And while Morse, wearing his heart all over his sleeve, commiserates, Joan contemplates savagely, ‘Good. One up for Ludo’s former companion.’

  


* * *

  


‘Alone, at last!’ Morse utters, with a twinkle in his eyes. Despite the flippant tone, an earnest truth sparkles underneath the shallow cliché, and it’s enough to solace Joan’s ruffled feelings.

Her tired neck rotates on the welcoming leather of the Jag passenger seat towards her husband. ‘I didn’t say it,’ she notes. ‘You did.’

‘But you thought it very loudly!’

‘Perish that thought! I’d never dream to interfere with your old College mateys. Tony’s a darling even if Bruce isn’t.’

‘Not the nagging wife, are you?’

Joan laughs, but her assumed mirth feels as hollow as it sounds. ‘Your friend didn’t seem to think so!’

‘Friend? Hardly that…’ Morse’s is busy at starting the car, and it obeys smoothly, promptly veering into the nearest street, then turning right. ‘Try as I may, I can’t say I really remember him.’

‘Doesn’t quite surprise me…’

‘Hmm?’ he frowns absentmindedly, the long fingers turning the wheel a few seconds later, bringing the Jag on the most direct route to their house.

‘I mean,’ continues Joan, ‘that Ludo hardly seems the type to belong to Tony’s set. Too bragging by half.’

There is a slight silence during which the couple ponders the sheer unbelievability of Ludo Talenti finding a niche into the Lake Silence set. His garishness doesn’t seem the kind to meld without mishap with their understated friend’s connections.

‘He didn’t.’ Morse’s hands turn the wheel gently, and the Jag leaps right, taking the road leading to Chigton Green. ‘Still, it was incredibly generous to invite us. I was hardly in a position to do so,’ he adds deprecatingly.

‘Probably means nothing to him,’ Joan asserts with a voice that is hard put to keep peevishness out of its tone. ‘He was probably bored out of his mind.’ She sneaks an experimented glance at her husband profile. ‘Or he made a pass at you. He never quite specified _who_ was his weakness.’

Morse _humph_ s neutrally, and Joan swallows a giggle. She knows the subject all too well, Jerome Hogg never stops trying. Even half-dejectedly. Even if it will avail him nothing and he knows it well. 

One of the downsides of being Morse’ wife is to witness how attractive he is to others; the upside, that he chose _her_ and keeps on choosing her. And Morse’s ambivalent reception of his own attractiveness, torn between bashful vanity and exasperation that people merely look at his exterior and not at his so _enchanting_ personality, never cease to provoke a surge of amused and annoyed tenderness in Joan.

‘Shocking lack of manners, shutting you out like that,’ Morse says decisively, letting innuendo fly by the wayside. ‘Can’t say I appreciate it, even from old mates from _Wolsey_.’

‘Courtesy is only skin deep with some people…’

In the darkness, Morse’s profile is engulfed by the shadows surrounding them, and only Joan’s imagination provides a dry point etching of the angular planes. Still, she doesn’t miss the bashful smile he offers her, before he focuses again intently on the road.

After a few moments of companionable silence, she queries, ‘What happened? In Queen’s Lane?’ 

‘Ran smack into a cyclist when I took the turn.’

‘Highly convenient for your pickpocket—’

‘Rather.’ Morse’s tone is awfully noncommittal. _Did the coincidence strike him, too?_

‘—and Ludo who happened to be right there to pick you up.’

‘He didn’t pick me up,’ Morse corrects, his tone icy.

‘Right. Still, he showed right in time to—’

‘—rescue me? Hardly.’

There is no mistaking his ill-humour now. Soothingly, Joan corrects, ‘Only in his dreams, darling.’

‘Even so. I’ll report my stolen wallet tomorrow. I’ll have to replace my driving licence. I don’t like it being at large.’ A pregnant pause, then ‘They tried to play me like a Stradivarius, your father will have a field day about this.’ From his tone, he doesn’t relish the thought at all.

Sagely, Joan doesn’t reply. 

Even if they are perfectly polite with each other’s— _too polite?_ —, that’s not the first time that she’s wondering about the underlying tension between her Dad and Endeavour. It’s pretty unmistakable.

But Joan doesn’t mention it overtly. That’s part of their Rule: what goes on at the nick between father and husband stays at the nick. It’s difficult enough to keep things separate, and it took years for Morse to relax his address to Thursday in private circumstances, even if he still can’t take upon himself to call him ‘Fred’ instead of ‘sir.’

‘Do you really need to tell Dad?’ Joan says after a while, picking up the thread of their conversation. ‘We can go to the nick early, then pick up Constant at 11 and have a picnic on the Cherwell. The weather will hold, I checked in the _Mail_.’

The silence answering her is imbued with attention, not stern refusal.

Joan smiles mischievously. ‘You get fed, I get to watch you punting, and Constant gets his cuddles; everybody happy, see?’ Her smile widens mischievously. ‘And if I’m real lucky, I’ll even get to see your forearms.’

‘You’ve seen my forearms plenty of times, you shameless hussy!’

‘True. But never more at advantage than when you’re punting.’

Morse huffs a short, pleased laugh. ‘Still believe that flattery will get you places?’

‘Shan’t it?’ Her tone holds a perfect balance of sauciness and expectancy. Morse darts a swift, appraising sidelong look at her, and the Jag speeds up a little. The last of his black mood dispelled, he ventures, after an additional silence and a last curve in the road, ‘At least, it got you home.’

The Jag decelerates, then halts in front of their house. Morse gets out, walks around the car, and bows as he opens the passenger door. ‘My Lady, your obedient servant!’

Joan exits laughing on the pavement, keenly watches him lock the car, before taking her key out of her purse and flattening it over his jacket, in the vicinity of his heart. The slightly puzzled gleam in Morse’s eyes turns suddenly fiery. His fingers thread over Joan’s, holding the key in place.

‘“ _Give me a key for this, and instantly unlock my fortunes here_ ”.’

‘Open the front door and your good fortune might be within,’ Joan suggests invitingly.

‘What? Only the door? No key to your heart?’ he counters with mock disappointment. ‘“ _How much unlike my hopes and my deservings!_ ”’

All trace of levity leaves her face, and she gazes at him seriously. ‘You unlocked it long ago.’

‘That I did.’

His lips find the curve of her neck and brush the soft flesh, right where the green dress meets her shoulder. ‘Vespertine? For me?’

She nods mutely.

Slowly, they back away along the front garden path, their hands still intertwined over the key, their progress impeded by lingering kisses.

Opening the door takes Morse more time than he would wish. Impatiently, he slams it behind them, seizing Joan’s clutch bag and throwing it without any compunction on the floor.

Her hands flatten onto his chest, and begin to trace the lapels of his jacket.

‘I really, really like men in a tux, you know.’

‘All men?’

‘You, particularly.’ Her fingers caress the front of his boiled shirt, and go up to his throat, unknotting his bow tie. ‘Actually, I love you in a tux.’

His smile stretches slowly, making the corner of his eyes crinkle and their irises shine with an almost obsidian glint inside their grey depths.

‘So I was made to understand in Venice.’

She laughs a carefree laugh. ‘Not only in Venice, surely?’

‘No, not only in Venice.’

Joan’s fingers reach the side of his jaw, then unhurriedly, her arms knot around his neck and bend his head down. Standing on tiptoe, stretched out against him, now she’s close enough to feel the smile slowly stretching his lips imprinted on her lips. It’s intoxicating, it absolutely is, and despite the warmth spreading from his hands tightening on the small of her back, she begins to tremble.

‘You’re beautiful tonight, Mrs. Morse.’

‘Only tonight?’

‘No,’ he breathes against her lips. ‘I like this dress.’

This new kiss is a deep one, and Joan’s voice is a little out of breath when she finally replies. ‘Do you?’

‘Hmm… I do.’ Another kiss, deftly deposited beneath her ear, this time on the corner of her jaw. ‘The zipper is very conveniently placed.’

Associating action to the words, his fingers unhurriedly zip it down all the way, while his lips unhurriedly trace the curve of her ear.

Joan’s giggle is a little lower than usual. ‘Poor me! I thought you were about to congratulate me for my exquisite taste!’

‘It is. Exquisite. And very—very convenient.’

He can't say much more, his lips now busy exploring the curve of her shoulder, laid bare by the unfastened dress.

Joan turns in his arms, and exposes her throat teasingly. With celerity, he takes advantage of the open invitation with his lips as she tightens the circle of her arms around his waist.

For a few minutes, there is no other sound in the entrance than soft murmurs and a few endearments. Then Joan pushes her head back, separating her lips from Morse’s, and breathes: ‘Bedroom?’

‘Bedroom.’

The rest of their conversation—if such may be so called—is too incoherent to merit retelling.

On the morrow, Morse will ‘doggedly’ remember to investigate Ludo’s time at ‘Wolsey,’ only to find out that there is no trace of any Talentis in the records of previous Oxford University students. None whatsoever.

And it doesn’t surprise him one bit. After all, Morse wasn’t born yesterday.

**The End (?)**

**Author's Note:**

> ‘ _Give me a key for this, / And instantly unlock my fortunes here_ ’ and ‘ _How much unlike my hopes and my deservings!_ ’ are quotes from _The Merchant of Venice_ , Act II, scene 9. 
> 
> Sorry, this fic was a long time in coming, and here’s why.  
> I first began to write a shortish S 7 one-shot set in this particular AU series, then I began to enlarge it, planning to write a more intricate story… Then Real Life got in the way, plotting fell short by a hair breadth and the story languished on my hard drive. Here it is at last, trimmed anew so it can be read as a one-chapter story, but with enough trimmings to enable me to write additional chapters, maybe… one day… in another life. (To be completely honest, another plot bunny has now caught my fancy, and I do hope to bring it to life.)  
>   
> Hoping you’ll enjoy it! I'd love to hear from you if you do! 😄


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